


Impacts

by miss_tatiana



Category: Riverdance - Whelan/Dorgan
Genre: Sailing, Travel, emigration - Freeform, set during the start of act ii
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 19:35:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13278420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_tatiana/pseuds/miss_tatiana
Summary: Silas was an enigma, of sorts. No one knew where he'd come from, and it didn't occur to anyone to ask him. But he was kind, kind enough that it didn't matter.-me? use riverdance characters to symbolize aspects of history? it's more likely than you think. if you're in the mood for sappy and hopeful literally look no further i've got you covered





	Impacts

**Author's Note:**

> so again credit for the names of these characters goes to the lovely @eponniia on tumblr, and she was also the one who kept me motivated to finish this story! ily! the only thing i'm good at writing is dialogue so welcome to dialogue land. i used the characters silas interacts with to represent different feelings towards emigration.

Silas was an enigma, of sorts. He had been on the boat with everyone from day one, and yet no one had known him. He wasn’t from any of the small communities from all over the country that had condensed onto the boats, and no one knew him, not even just by name. It was as if he’d just appeared on the boat the moment it left the harbor, a stoic guiding specter. People had different theories about him. That he was from the country all along, just isolated, a hermit, but that was quickly disproven by the fact that he had no accent, nor did he bear any resemblance to any of them. That he had been on the boat since before they came to the harbor, and that he had just stayed on it as it went to the New World. That one was slightly more plausible. That he was a ghost, although he was too kind and solid to be a ghost. No one knew where he’d come from, and it didn’t occur to anyone to ask him. But he was kind, kind enough that it didn’t matter.

* * *

 

When Silas came across Maura, huddled in the corner of an empty galley storeroom about two weeks into the journey, she wasn’t crying because she’d already cried everything she had out, and all that was left was red rims around her eyes and a dulled sense about her body. He knelt beside her to be on her level instead of standing above her, his impressive form folded over on itself, and he asked her, “What’s wrong?”

Maura sniffed, looking up at him. “Who are you?” she whispered. 

“Silas,” he said, knowing that she’d know of him from that. Everyone knew of Silas, but nobody really knew him. 

“Maura,” she murmured back, and worried the hem of her skirt with her fingers. “And everything is wrong.” She shook her head. “My parents are back home and I-” She held a hand over her mouth. “I’ve just realized they’ll never meet their grandchildren. I mean- I know Liam and I are going to have a family in America, and-” She breathed out, slowly, shakily. “I know we won’t have money to come back over the sea. It’s just not how I wanted it to happen.” 

Silas let out a sigh as he sat next to her, breathing out the tension in his back, his shoulders. “Things change,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. “Even if they are bad changes, they are towards something. Why are you on this boat?”

“So my children don’t have to be born in poverty,” Maura answered automatically, eyes trained on the floor. Her words were easy, like she didn’t have to think about them, and she touched her stomach, like she was already with child. Maybe she was.

Silas was silent for a moment, both to contemplate her words and to let her do the same. “I’m not your mother, or your father, but I think I might be able to guess at what they’re feeling about this.”

Maura looked up at him. 

“They must be proud, Maura.” Silas gave her a shrug. “They must be. There is nothing braver than leaving a life behind for a better one. Knowing their child is risking everything to give her children more opportunities must be everything a parent wants. It means you’re magnificent. If I was your mother, or your father, I wouldn’t be upset. Maybe sad, just at first, but mostly very proud.” 

Maura smiled at him, a watery smile. “Really?”

“Without question.” Silas rose to his feet again, feeling as if she could figure the rest out for herself. He often kept himself from getting to know passengers too well, or else he’d end up missing them when they arrived at their destination. He stopped, though, before he reached the stairs back up to the deck. “Do you have names in mind? For your children?”

“Not yet,” said Maura, but the question made her happy for unknowable reasons. “Not yet, but I’m sure I will when I’m closer to meeting them.”

That settled Silas, like an anchor would a ship. It made the struggles and torture of the journey closer to worth it. “If you ever need to talk again, you can find me, if you’d like. It’s not a very big ship.”

Maura stood, brushing off her skirts, and murmured thanks to him through a smile until he was no longer visible as he ascended the stairs up to the main deck.

* * *

 

When Silas found Seamus, surrounded by the splinters of a crate he’d just dismantled, he wasn’t crying because he was too furious for tears. He stood in the wreckage he’d created, his chest heaving, out of breath, hands tightened into fists by his sides. He looked up as Silas pushed through the bit of fabric they’d hung as a barrier between storerooms. 

Silas cleared his throat, knowing his presence could be intimidating due to his sheer size and quiet nature, hoping not to come off that way. “What’s wrong?”

“This bloody ship,” Seamus retorted quickly, as if the words had just been building inside him, ready to tumble out at the slightest query. “This bloody, damned ship, and the promised land at the end of this bloody journey.” His voice was rising steadily to a yell. “The damn curse on my hands that rotted everything I planted back at home!”

Silas bent over and began to pick up the fragments of wood that littered the floor, cautiously eyeing Seamus’ position in relation to the many other crates stacked around the room. “What was in this box?”

Seamus pointed to a heap of cloth, maybe jackets, or maybe just bolts of fabric, sitting under a dusting of splinters. “That.” His teeth were gritted, and every breath he took felt forced and cold against them. Then he dropped suddenly to his knees and helped clean the floor, every move he made to pick up a bit of wood silent and deliberate. 

Every once and awhile, their shoulders bumped, or Seamus’ hand knocked into Silas’, and neither of them said anything, both too busy thinking and pretending to be too busy cleaning the storeroom floor. 

Finally, with a sigh, Silas spoke. “The crops failing wasn’t your fault.”

Seamus sat up, straightening his back. “Nothing grew,” he spat. “Not a single- I did everything right, I did everything just like my father always did, and nothing came up. When I dug into the earth the roots were black and they just came apart in my hands.” He was looking down at those hands now. 

“It was a blight. A disease,” Silas said. “The entire country got it just like you did. You didn’t cause the famine.”

“I should have known my fields better, I should have done whatever would have stopped it,” Seamus said bitterly, eyes trained on the floor. 

“What would have stopped it?” asked Silas. He watched Seamus carefully, noting everything the kid did. 

“I… I could’ve…” Seamus began to grind his teeth, jaw tensed, trying to think up anything, an excuse to blame the journey on himself. “There had to be…” He thought harder, digging his fingernails into the pieces of wood he was holding. “What? What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t want you to say anything.” Silas took the last bits of wood from Seamus’ hands and gathered them and all the other splinters up into his arms before standing. “You had to realize that there was nothing you could have done. It was not your fault.”

Seamus looked angry for a moment, then a tight smile spread across his face and he shook his head. “Right. Right.” He sounded like he was in disbelief. His posture relaxed, though, his shoulders slumping, his arms falling by his sides, sinking closer to the floor he was kneeling on. “What’s your name?” he asked, looking up at Silas. 

“Silas,” Silas answered. “Are you alright now?” He offered a hand, which Seamus took, and pulled him up to his feet. 

Seamus breathed out a sigh as he glanced around the room one more time, making sure he’d picked everything up. “Yeah, I get it now. I still hate it, but- I couldn’t have stopped it.” He looked over at Silas. “Thanks.”

“Think nothing of it,” Silas said, voice deep, words gentle, and he began to leave the room, on his way to bring the ruined crate somewhere it could be burned or tossed over the side. “I’m always around,” he reminded, “if you want to talk. It’s not a very big ship.”

Seamus laughed, just for a second. “I’ll keep that in mind.” And he watched Silas push through the curtain once again, and watched the fabric settle into place behind him.

* * *

 

When Silas found Killian, he was crying. He was leaning over the side of the boat, elbows on the guardrail, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. If he noticed Silas walk over and stand beside him, he didn’t react. 

Silas thought to speak, then thought better and laid his hands on Killian’s shoulders instead in hopes that it would ground him. They had met several times before, only to exchange casual conversation. 

Killian seemed to shrink in his hands, leaning further down on the guardrail.

“What’s-” Silas began.

“Look,” Killian said quickly, his voice tight and unsteady. 

And Silas did look, beyond the boat, over the dark, nighttime sea, and there were lights. Warm lights on the horizon, reflected out onto the water and mirrored in the sky by the stars. America. 

“I don’t know what to feel, I don’t- I don’t know what to do-” Killian was staring right at the lights, like he was talking to them instead of to Silas. Tears were coursing down his face, and he rubbed a sleeve under his eyes. He let Silas pull him up off the guardrail. 

Silas kept a hand on Killian’s shoulder even after he was standing up straight, worried that if he let go, Killian might crumple back up. He felt like nothing under Silas’ palm. “It’s beautiful,” he offered, trying to make out Killian’s expression through the darkness. 

“It is,” Killian agreed, sounding panicked. “I- it’s so beautiful but I don’t know whether to be happy or- I don’t know how to- should I hate it? Should I- should I not be able to wait until we get there tomorrow? Tell me what to do.” He leaned forwards, dropping his forehead onto Silas’ chest. 

It struck Silas then that Killian was young. He wasn’t a kid but he had been one not very long ago, and he shouldn’t have had to leave his home this early. He put an arm around Killian. After a few moments of silence, he said, “You’re married, are you not?”

“Yes.” Killian’s voice was muffled by Silas’ shirt. 

Silas knew he was. Everyone knew Killian and Fiona, the most inseparable, unbreakable pair on the ship. “Would she-”

“She can’t wait to get off this boat, she’s been talking about it for weeks,” Killian said, finally taking a step back from Silas and training his eyes immediately to the shore again. “She’s… she’s one for adventure and challenges, this is going to be fun for her.” He took a deep breath, wiped his face again. He seemed to be calming down. “And- I love that, and I love her, but I miss being home. I just- I don’t know who I need to be.” 

“You think I can tell you that?” Silas shook his head. “I can’t, that’s one of those-”

“One of those things I need to tell myself, I know.” Killian sighed, the lights of the new world shining at him. “It’s- I love her enough to pretend I have myself figured out, but- I don’t.” 

Silas leaned over the guardrail, watching the reflection of the shoreline in the water. “That’s alright. You’re young, you’ve got time.” It was unfair, he thought, how Ireland’s youth was being forced into the role of the immigrant, being made to grow up too quickly, and being expected to know everything they needed to know before reaching anything.

“I’ve got-” Killian broke off into a nervous, cynical laugh. “I’ve got about six hours, until this boat-” He pointed down to the deck beneath his feet. “-reaches that port-” His hand then went to gesture towards the shore. “-and that doesn’t seem like time to me.”

“What are you worried about? Is this about what Fiona will think?” Silas turned to look at him. 

Killian let out a breath, sniffed, cleared his throat, wiped his eyes. “I don’t know. I panic over things I’m not sure about, and I’m not… I’m not sure about this.” His hands were at his sides, subconsciously tapping out a rhythm into his thighs. 

“You don’t need to be sure about anything. That’s one of the best things in life, there gets to be possibilities,” said Silas. “If you’re sure about something, there’s only one good outcome and the rest are mistakes, whereas if you go into it with an open mind, anything can happen.”

“Huh. I didn’t- hm.” Killian was laughing again, but this time it wasn’t mocking or harsh. It was still at himself, but it was different, like he was processing something new. “I didn’t think about it that way.” He ran a hand over his face. 

Silas watched the lights sway in the ocean. “Do you have your mind made up about it?”

Killian shook his head. “No.”

“Good.” Silas smiled at him. “I’m going back below deck to sleep, are you going to be alright?” Even though he knew he’d made an impact, he wasn’t sure how big, and he wanted to make sure Killian would be fine before he left.

Killian shrugged, bit his lip, weighed the question. “Yeah. Yes.”

“If you go offboard before we talk again, I wish you luck in the new world,” Silas said, and began to head down the stairs.

Killian was leaning once again over the guardrail, fixated on the city across the water. “Thank you. Silas- may God be with you.”

Silas nodded, smiled. “And with you.”

* * *

 

When Silas met Oona, she was leaning against the mast of the ship, her violin in her hand and the mist of a morning at sea swirling about her. She was not crying, but there was a glint of tears still held in her eyes. It was early, so early that he’d thought no one else would be up. He was wrong. 

Oona had always been watchful, and she was not going to miss watching an event as momentous as this. The ship would dock in just an hour or so. “The sun hasn’t even finished rising. I thought I’d be alone on deck this early.”

“I have to start preparing to dock,” Silas answered truthfully. He didn’t add that he always tried to do his work before the rest of the crew began so that he could have more peace of mind to sift through his thoughts. “What sent you on this journey?”

Oona considered the question. “No one my age would stay on the island. Everyone was leaving, the only ones left would be their parents. I thought I’d-” She shrugged. “-move with my generation. I’m one for new things. There are certainly more of those to find in America than back in Ireland.”

“You weren’t a farmer?” Silas asked. Everyone on these boats were farmers, or people who relied on farmers for their livings. 

Oona looked down quickly, biting the inside of her cheek. Her fingers tightened around the neck of her violin. She was visibly uncomfortable, and although her feet were obscured by mist, the sound of her heavy boots tapping agitatedly battled against the noises of the waves on the sides of the ship. 

Silas almost laughed, in a loving way. Young immigrants all had that same guarded, dramatic, defensive edge to them that made them easy to take to. “You don’t need to answer me if-”

“The thing is, I’ve lied about it ever since I got on this boat,” Oona said, her voice monotonous, her eyes trained on something below the bow of her violin, which she had hanging tensely from one hand. “I didn’t- I couldn’t be seen as someone who was driven to make this journey out of desperateness.”

“Why? That’s why everyone else made it,” Silas pointed out. He knew exactly what she was describing, though. He had to justify every advance he made, he’d found, as a Black sailor in a white world. Sometimes, it was easier to stop fighting and pretend you’d gotten where you were easily. 

Oona stopped tapping her foot. “My father and mother had to farm all their lives, and only after I was born did they have enough money saved up to move into a bigger village and start doing… higher class jobs. My mum washed. My dad did shoes. It wasn’t a lot but it was better than farming, and I-” She fidgeted for a moment, collecting herself. “It feels like I let them work for nothing if I say the land is what drove me away.” 

“But-”

“It’s easier to pretend you’re better off than the people around you sometimes,” Oona said sharply. “I don’t like getting attached to people, and if I start to sympathize with them, I’ll know them too well.”

Silas coiled a length of mooring rope and set it near the guardrail. “What’s wrong with knowing them?”

“Nothing, it’s just- easier not to.” Oona shook her head, and directed her attention to her violin. She picked it up and plucked at it, pretending it needed to be tuned. Every string, of course, was already perfectly adjusted. 

“More often than not, easier isn’t better,” Silas reminded her. He looked over at her, just to check if she would meet his eyes yet. She wouldn’t, although she looked definitively more troubled. 

Oona sighed. She tucked her chin over her violin like she was going to play, but just rested her head there instead, the bow still hanging by her side. “I know that. I know that I deal with bad things by pretending they’re not happening to me. But I don’t know how to stop. I’ve done it that way my whole life.”

“Stop there.” Silas lifted a hand and pointed over the horizon, to where the newly risen sun had just revealed the shores of America rearing up out of the mist. “That’s the chance to start again, and be who you want to be instead of who’s the easiest to be.” 

“You’re not wrong,” Oona replied, eyeing the new world. “That is the perfect place to start over. I don’t know how I can-”

“Be true to yourself, first,” Silas instructed carefully. “Don’t find shame in your past or in your heritage, second. Don’t be frightened to make connections with people, it often enriches your life, third.” That was a concept he had taken to heart over the course of the last few years of his life. He knew that talking to someone, getting to know them if only for a short while, made his life more interesting, and more satisfying. “And of course, lastly, find pride in yourself and your actions.”

Oona had been nodding through the list. “I mean, they all make sense. They might be difficult to stick to, though.”

“Well, difficult is-” 

“Yeah, better, I know.” Oona chuckled, standing away from the mast. “Do you want some help with that?” She pointed to the rope he was working with. 

Silas smiled, knowing she’d take the lesson to heart. “I wouldn’t ask you to sully your hands on sea ropes. But I wouldn’t mind a song.”

Oona, of course, didn’t turn him down. She played the ship awake, and then she played it to the docks, knowing firmly, for the first time in a long time, that she would be able to explain her story to the next person who asked without looking away or becoming angry. In the new world, she would have pride in herself, and that pride shone through her song.

* * *

 

There was always a bit of a lull in Silas’ heart after a load of passengers departed after a long voyage. Not only would he have no one but fellow crew mates to talk to until they picked up the next bunch of travelers, but he knew that he probably wouldn’t see any of the people he’d met again. It was, of course, the same when these passengers stepped out, tearfully, joyfully, in their new world, ready to face adversity and find prosperity. He shook as many hands as he could as he stood by the ramps and watched the familiar faces stream down onto the decks of America. As they left the ship, they took their stories with him. He was not a hermit anymore, nor was he a monk, nor was he a ghost, or any other person they spun up to explain him. He was a sailor, then, like he always had been. He was a man of words, a man who liked to heal and help through talk. Because, after all, he knew, people are only what impact they make on others, and he strove to make impacts whenever they were needed. 

**Author's Note:**

> comments/kudos appreciated. thanks for reading


End file.
